


Ford Escape (hahaha it's a car pun)

by Sidonut



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Spoilers, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidonut/pseuds/Sidonut
Summary: You're sitting the the back of the van. You would prefer not to be in the van at all.
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first AO3 fic, so if I need to tag something or reformat something or anything like that please let me know!

You're the only thing sitting in the back of the van, but you know there's two of them up front. Armed. There's a mask on your face and cuffs on your hands but one of those is not a problem and the other can be dealt with. That's what you're doing right now. Dealing. They think that the needle is still in your arm, and that these cuffs will hold you, and that your resistance to the drugs is a fraction of what it really is because you've been playing the long game. But the IV is dripping down your wrist and you can feel your powers creeping back to you.

It's a relief, the return of an old friend. Like taking a deep breath and never finishing the inhale. The corners of your mouth turn up, tug on the scar tissue. When was the last time you smiled?

You reach out and take a firm grip on the driver's mind. They really did think this would be enough to hold you, didn't they? Your first escape was a fluke, but this one will be because they were foolish enough to underestimate you. What you're willing to put yourself through to strike back at them. Bracing as best you can, you clench the driver's hands and wrench.


	2. Whoops I wrote more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is called: Maybe don’t telepathically crash a car when you don’t have a seatbelt, BRIANNA. Watch out for spoilers and heads up for injuries and some vague Heartbreak-esque telepathy type stuff.

You’re suspended in midair for a moment and you suppress a jolt of familiarity.

You collide with the far side of the van

and everything is mercifully quiet.

You come back to yourself sprawled on what was the roof of the van, face down, and for a moment you’re lying on pavement and shattered glass instead of dented metal and you’re back  _ -nononot there anywhere but- _

You ignore your own thoughts for the moment, let instinct take over. Struggle to fill your lungs. Do it again. Let feeling filter back into your body and embrace the pain as it comes, turn it over and examine it in your head and then set it aside for later as you push yourself up. You need to be moving. Cough against the ache in your ribs, groan at the way the cuffs have dug into your wrists, cuts on your arms and wrist and face, and then shriek at the way your knee burns when you try to stand up. But once you know to expect the pain you can ignore it. Stumble upright long enough to fall against the door. It’s still locked, but that’s easy enough to fix.

You follow a thread back into the driver’s head, brief relief at leaving your own aches behind, and find him suspended upside-down. Unconscious in his seat. You’re not used to piloting someone without their own mind running in the background to fall back on but you’ll make it work. He unbuckles, falls to the ground in an uncoordinated heap and you ignore his new bruises to yank the keys out of the ignition. The second one is waking up, shouting something but you’re too busy making the driver drag himself out the window and crawl to the back door because it’s easier than trying to get him to stand when you’re working around both your concussions at once. The key goes in the hole after far too many tries, and you turn it. The driver drops back to the ground and you nauseously come back to yourself. It’s worse doing it the second time.

You shove the door open and there’s the second man.

Pistol pointed right between your eyes.

You should have seen that coming.

You should be moving.

You scramble backwards into the wreck and he follows shouting something you can’t quite understand, and  _ you can feel him. _ If you just twist a little, his arm turns the gun around and  **_-BANG-_ ** you wince at the gunshot.

You crawl out of the wreckage, as far away as you can before the pain becomes more than you can ignore and you let yourself slump over onto your side. Don’t ignore it, you can take stock of what’s wrong now. Do ignore that you just did the same thing to that guard that the woman in the apartment did to you. Worse, even. You’re still here. A shudder rolls through you and you scramble to shove the mask up, retch in the dirt. Your mouth takes like copper and acid. You absently compare it to licking a battery. Then you sit up and take your first breath of free air in five long years. Then you take another. The scrapes on your face sting a little and you almost smile, but what would be the point when you’re the only one around to see.

Your run your fingers over the mask pushed back on your forehead. It’s a shitty, flimsy thing made out of thin plastic. Just one more way to remind your keepers that you’re not really human.

You could take it off. Throw it as far away as possible. Make this a fresh start.

You take one more deep breath of air and pull the mask back down.


End file.
